


Scattering Stars Like Dust

by spitfyre



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Fairy Tale Elements, M/M, Old Norse, War, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-05 14:33:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6708568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spitfyre/pseuds/spitfyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo wasn't born odd. Bilbo was different long before that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, after an extensive period of not really posting anything in Fanfiction I thought I would start anew. While an avid reader of Fanfiction, my first love was always writing. I love the impute of readers and the development of the craft. Please be patient with my somewhat fumbling attempt to write fiction again. It’s been many years of only contract and business writing for me. Fiction, of course, is its only special snow flake in the writing world.
> 
> Any words I think need to be explained will be posted at the end of the fic with the meaning and origin. Tolkien based much of his writing on the Dwarrow on Old Norse renditions of Dwarves as well as some German stories. He also infused his Dwarrow with his view of European Jews (secret language, affinity to crafts, subjugation to other cultures). While I will be using Khuzdul for this fic, I will also be using a lot of Old Norse words with some Danish thrown in. I’m much more familiar with Scandinavian languages than Hebrew. 
> 
> This fic will have at least one explicit sex scene and I will make sure to mention at the beginning of that part as a warning. Otherwise, the warnings will be minimal. This is a Tolkien/Lord of the Rings/Hobbit fic so expect the general level of cannon level violence and no more. 
> 
> I have a particular affection for Rumi. Bonus points for anyone able to point out any references besides the title.

“We come spinning out of nothingness, scattering stars like dust.” - Rumi

Bilbo wasn’t born with the Knowing. The Knowing wasn’t created by the happenstance of his birth to a wild Took or a dependable Baggins. The Knowing was present in Bilbo before his conception when Bilbo was merely a speck in a grand nothingness. Yavanna sang to the speck about green vales, fire, and a golden ring. And the speck accepted the burden asked of it. Bilbo wasn’t born with the Knowing, but in the hour of his birth he Dreamt and everything altered because of it.

Bilbo was born midweek on no particularly advantageous day of the year. His birth was unheralded, noticed only by his closest relatives. Born to Belladonna Baggins nee Took, the labor was neither long nor arduous. His greatest claim to fame before six months of age was a truly epic spit up on Persimmon Proudfoot after an inconsiderate amount of jostling while being held with the said Ms. Proudfoot. To say that Belladonna was ecstatic at the event was an understatement. That distant relation was rather tedious to say the least and particularly disingenuous to Belladonna’s young son. Belladonna thought to herself, of course much after the wailing of Ms. Proudfoot and the slightly green face of her husband, Bilbo already was a remarkable judge of character.

Bilbo’s childhood was largely unremarkable as Hobbit childhoods usually are, but at times a gesture made, a word uttered made Belladonna pause and consider her son. While some other relations disregarded any particularity as a Tookish inclination, Belladonna knew that she never taught him that turn of phrase, that rude gesture, or that bawdy song. Each time such an occurrence happened, Bella turned it over in her head for many moments before leaving it be. Raising a child does not leave much time for even moderate reflection, never mind the more in depth consideration of the words spilling from her son’s mouth. She had neither the time nor inclination to research if the words he said at time were anything more than childish creations. Instead Bella wiped her son’s berry stained cheeks when he proudly brought home scavenged tomatoes and kissed his head when he regaled her with stories of battles won against the wily farmer and his loyal beast. Her husband was quietly horrified by Bilbo’s dirt stained teeth and torn clothing after a scrummage with the Brandybuck lads, but Bella delighted in every Tookish story. 

Odd things occurred along the boundaries of the Shire, so Bella made sure to teach her wilding child the breaths, the walks, the lore, and the ground. The Tooks, and to some extent even the Brandybucks, were more likely than not to get tangled up in the oddities of the Old Forest, Bindbole Woods, or the White Downs. They were just as likely to be called to Bree to handle a suspicious occurrence as the Bree Men were an untrustful and not everything could be handled by the wandering Men. And so, Bilbo’s life in the Shire continued generally unremarkable from any other Took until the Grey Wander interrupted a fair sunny day.

********** 

The door, once revealed against the mountainside, was nothing to much to speak about. With the hushed discussion with Lord Elrond about moon runes, Bilbo had expected something grand, like the Doors of Durin. The tales of the Doors of Durin led Bilbo to believe that the Dwarrow were a romantic sort in general and his relations with his Company had not created doubt in Bilbo’s mind in regards to their passions. Dwarrow loved fiercely their family, lovers, and craft. It was only now, standing in front of this door that Bilbo doubted the tales.

Narvi and Celebrimbor created a door of such unfettered beauty in honor of their friendship and the friendship of their people. An age had passed and even Bilbo, in his lonely corner of the world, knew of the Door of Durin. He could imagine it in almost perfect detail. Were the tales wrong or had his Dwarrow changed that much since their life in Moria. Most of his Dwarrow didn’t speak of that mountain or those doors, only of Erebor.

Bilbo shifted on sore feet some distance behind his partial group of Dwarrow. They uttered their amazement as the plain door etched into a cliff face of a mountain appeared in the light of the moon. Bilbo felt less amazement, something closer to sadness or pity. An age had passed and the Dwarrow had hidden the only other door to the mountain on a barren ledge accessible only on the bitter night before winter. Durin’s door had always been open, right up until Sauron’s war, but this door across middle earth was designed to be always closed, unwelcoming even to the heirs of the mountain.

Thorin, though, stood to the side of group and stared at Bilbo with delphinium eyes. He gestured abruptly with two fingers for Bilbo to approach. Bilbo came to stop on Thorin’s left side gazing silently at the King. Thorin looked away towards the door, but did not share in his company’s wonder. He didn’t look worried for the rest of his company, stranded at Laketown. He didn’t fidget impatiently for his sister-sons. 

Bilbo waited content to stand in the heat of his lover’s presence inhaling the musk of him. A flicker of movement caught Bilbo’s attention. Dwalin stood silently to the side of the opened door watching the two of them with kind eyes. Bilbo smiled back at the warrior, but the warm fingers pressing hard against his shoulder brought his gaze back to Thorin. 

“Go. Fulfill your contract Burglar. Find the Arkenstone and bring it to me.”

Bilbo quirked a half smile, “Is that all? No well wishes, no advice?”

Thorin stilled and pressed tighter against Bilbo’s collarbone, “Are you refusing your duty? You signed a contract Burglar.”

He shook his head, the longer curls mixed with beads and braids. “No.” He sighed. “No, I’m your burglar if nothing else.”

Dwalin moved to them and pressed against Bilbo’s left side, his presence a warm counterpart to Thorin’s chilled gaze and ham fisted fingers. “Ástir …”

Bilbo interrupted, “It’s time Dwalin. Walk with me?” Dwalin frowned deeply, but Bilbo ignored him and turned to Thorin, his other lover’s gaze intense. Bilbo sighed, reached up and gripped Thorin’s fingers clasped tightly on his shoulder. “I am yours, love. I will return shortly and you will be home once again.”

Dwalin gestured and led Bilbo away. “Ástir, I am your hammer. I will guard your back,” he whispered furiously as they passed the silent company to the door. Bilbo stopped short of the door and looked side-eyed at Dwalin. “You are my warrior Dwalin, never doubt. But before anything else you are the right hand of Thorin. Your king needs you.”

Dwalin looked to be grinding his teeth in response so Bilbo reached up to Dwalin’s chin turning it gently towards him. He met Dwalin’s hazel eyes and smiled sincerely for the first time since leaving Thorin’s sister-sons behind in that wretched rotting town. “Wherever I am, wherever you are, I shall love you Mr. Dwalin.” Dwalin gently met their brows together. They both breathed deep before Bilbo pulled away and entered the hidden door of Erebor.

******* 

Bilbo shimmied down the narrowing shaft placing each foot carefully on the rough stone hewn ground. A rock scuffed against his sole and slipped against the granite wall. Bilbo froze and sucked in air silently. The echo of the rock would otherwise had been negligible, but in this instance with his teeth clenched, the echo vibrated almost intolerably. Thorin thought that the dragon was dead, but Dwalin in the quiet, after soothing a restless Thorin to sleep, had confessed his concerns. “Dragons live forever unless killed,” he had whispered against Bilbo’s ear. “Quiet your feet. I’m at your back.”

In the silence of the shaft on the way to see if a dragon still lived as Dwalin predicted, Bilbo felt the press of Dwalin against his back. The feel of Thorin’s chest against his own was missing. Thorin’s eyes had been dead and wild when they looked at Bilbo before he headed down, down to meet one of his fates. He hadn’t recognized Thorin; he doesn’t recognize his lover. Gone was the Dwarrow who scoffed at flower crowns, but left salvia guaranitica on his bed roll for several nights. 

Dwalin he saw. Dwalin who had watched silently in Laketown and on the mountain cliff face. He was supportive of them both, but didn’t confront Thorin even when he knew something was off with their lover. What was there to confront? They knew the mountain haunted their lover. It spoke to him of past glories and of death, so much death. Bilbo knew better than most the eerie whispers of home. How memories could twist and churn the best of things into something that followed your steps, picked at your heels. Bilbo himself was born not a stones-throw from what his mother’s people called Tyrn Gorthad, the Barrow Downs. The vǣttr wandered there. Smaug, Bilbo thinks, is a different sort of vǣttr, but no less indelible.

The echo and the echo’s memory faded and Bilbo shook himself from his thoughts. This was but one thing he must face in his life. Smaug was or was not alive. There was nothing Bilbo could change about the reality of his situation. He dug his toes into the grit of the floor and moved on. He was always moving on.

Yards expended under his feet in minutes that felt as if hours pressed against his breast. There was little light to be had except for the pale bluish green glow of arachnocampa luminosa along the ceiling. The light was not enough for Hobbit eyes to see clearly, but Bilbo made do as he always had. He was the best at this sort of thing, even amongst his own kind. A short curl in the shaft led to an abrupt opening- the shaft itself petered out in front of him to a wide vista and the ceiling shot up thousands of yards. Bilbo blinked rapidly to adjust to the change in color and in light. Shinning grimly, a mound of gold so large as to be incomprehensible spanned in front of him, the walls of the treasury stretched tall in graceful arches thousands of yards above the hoard. The mass of gold and gems gleamed and glittered with a remarkable light. 

Bilbo craned his head and looked both directions and then up to the ceiling. The gold seemed limitless, the light upon the gold unascertainable. Tried as he might, Bilbo could not locate the source of the luminescence against the gold. The floor in front of his narrow shaft did not look stable enough to walk upon without making a considerable noise, but Bilbo was certain he must go on. Thorn’s presence was a force upon his heels, pushing against his reluctant knees. The dragon. He must find the dragon.

Bilbo was divided in emotions, thought, and body. Erebor was the home of his people, his lovers. Smaug took this new refuge so quickly after the House of Durin were forced out of Moria. The limited times Balin spoke of it, hushed in front of a midnight campfire, Bilbo felt the ache of the loss in his breast. His family, his friends had wandered the harsh neverlands seeking a home that they could not recreate. A home that Smaug had burned into their flesh, their soul. What else could he do but do what he said he would do in the beginning (even if only to himself, his back pressed to a wooden door listening to a lament sung in his den). Even with uneven floor strewn with the gold of several kingdoms, Bilbo owed a duty to his lovers to see them home.

The matter settled, as best his nerves could handle, Bilbo stepped forward on the uneven coins slipping one quiet Hobbit foot down and then another. The coins barely shifted beneath his weight. Bilbo continued this way for a small eternity, carefully inhaling and exhaling out his open mouth barely daring to take the air he needed to keep the spots away from his eyes. A shorter arch appeared in front of him and there, there Bilbo saw it strewn carelessly amongst the glittering gold and gems.

Bilbo picked up the stone and held it at eye level. Ori was right. The stone shone with a gleeful light unmatched by anything else in the hoard. Thorin was wrong. This was not the Jewel of the House of Durin. This was death and destruction and a weight pressing against his hip burning and desiring. The light flickered within the stone illuminating the room. None of that matter as Bilbo stared at the stone he held in trembling hands. The flicker of the light taunted him. 

The world froze in that instance as Bilbo remembered. His people had done a terrible thing. 

******

Arachnocampa luminosa: More commonly known as New Zealand glowworm, it is a species of fungus gnat endemic to New Zealand. While found in warm moist caves, in this fic we will throw science to the wind. They project a light bluish green glow and were discovered by Europeans in a gold mine in 1871.

Ástir: Love (noun) Old-Norse

Delphinium: a bluish-purple ornamental flower that is highly toxic to humans and livestock

Feiknstafir: curses (old-norse)

Jarnsmidr: Iron-Smith (old-norse)

Salvia guaranitica: also called Hummingbird Sage or Anise-scented sage, it’s a type of perennial subshrub that come in various shades of blue.

Vǣttr: directly translates to being, but used here it is meant to be wights or barrow-wights. Creatures that are not ghosts that haunt burial grounds in Norse mythology. Also similar to draugr mythology which means again-walker. They live in graves and are similar to zombies. Tolkien based the subplot of the Nazgul.


	2. Chapter 2

Bilbo’s ears heard the hoard shifting and cascading behind him. He felt the acrid breath of a dragon asleep too long against his back. But in that moment it mattered little. He held the death of his people in his right hand and the death of all free peoples in his pant pocket. He looked at the stone and thought, “I know what you are. You shouldn’t be here.”

Bilbo tucked the stone, the heart of the mountain, against his breast under his ragged coat and turned to face the arched grandeur that was Smaug. “Well,” he thought, “what are the chances that a Jarnsmidr die by a fire not of his own making twice.” Bilbo met one of Smaug’s wicked yellow eyes and raised his chin. 

“Well, thief! I smelled you coming and I felt your air. Have you come to share in my treasure hoping I shall not miss what you took?” Smaug’s voice rumbled through the tepid air of the treasury vibrating Bilbo’s bones. The hair on Bilbo’s neck stood straight up, his body broke out in goosebumps. Smaug was not what the Erebor dwarrows had said. He was worse, a reeking shambling corpse of a thing. Bilbo swallowed vomit, how many died to make this thing? How many were still trapped here suffering? 

Smaug stretched his neck long bringing one yellow eye within a hairsbreadth of Bilbo’s face. The enormous eye larger in radius than Bilbo’s height reflected the pale light of the treasury, shimmering gold then a pale sickly green. The air punched out of Bilbo’s lungs. Smaug was the most powerful draugr that he had ever seen. Larger than the brimstone fire that occupied the bowels of Khazad-dûm, his presence boiled in the back of Bilbo’s mind.

“Well, thief. You bore me with your reticence.”

He gulped and said in return, “No thank you, O Smaug the Tremendous! I did not come for treasure. I only wished to have a look at you and see if you were truly as great as tales say. I did not believe them."

The dragon scoffed, “and now?” He sounded bored.

"Truly songs and tales fall utterly short of the reality, O Smaug the Greatest of Calamities," replied Bilbo, speaking truthfully. Smaug turned slightly away to look over his red scales smugly and Bilbo looked for a door, any door that could fit Smaug’s heft. He was the only one who knew the songs and was willing to do what must be done. Why had the Elves left this here?

"You have well practiced manners for a thief and a liar," said Smaug, turning back to Bilbo. He seemed amused by Bilbo’s flustered examination of the treasury. "You seem familiar with my name, but I don't seem to remember smelling you before. Who are you and where do you come from?"

His mind racing, he quickly modified a ditty his father used to chortle about in front of the warm fires of Bag End, “I come from under the hill, and under the hills and over the hills my paths led. And through the air. I am he that walks unseen." Bilbo suppressed a nauseous gag. He had used that fucking ring.

Smaug curled his tail around Bilbo’s far side, blocking a quick exit, but still leaving a gap between his teeth and his tail. 

Bilbo rocked back on his heels and continued on as he located a wide arch at least a hundred yards to his left. “I am the clue-finder, the web-cutter, the stinging fly. I was chosen for the lucky number."

"Lovely titles!" sneered the dragon. "But lucky numbers don't promise luck.” Bilbo shuffled to the left, in the one break of the dragon’s curl around him, closer to the glaive length teeth. Smaug watched him leave and followed with exaggerated slow steps. Bilbo didn’t rush, but slowly meandered to the arch. It looked large enough for his purposes.

He continued with his chosen outer names, “I am he that buries his friends alive and drowns them and draws them alive again from the water. I came from the end of a bag, but no bag went over me.”

"These names don't sound so creditable," scoffed Smaug, “They are hardly ones that you should claim.”

"I am the friend of bears and the guest of eagles. I am Ringwinner and Luckwearer; and I am Barrel-rider," went on Bilbo beginning to construct his trap in his mind. Casting his memory for the proper words, clutching a worn piece of chalk in his free pocket.

“I am he who walks in silence, who brings peace to the unrestful.” Bilbo paused, “I am a father, a son, a crafter, and a lover. Where I walk people bow.”

"That's better!" said Smaug. "But don't let your imagination run away with you!" Smaug laughed at his own joke made at Bilbo’s attempted escape.

Bilbo had many names, some public and some private. He had other names that had not been spoken in ages. He didn’t give the draugr his hidden names or his public names. He knew better. Giving a dragon a true name gave them power of you, giving a draugr any of your names almost always spelled death. Smaug didn’t know him, which was unlike some draugar he encountered in the past. The ones that knew your name usually were the worst. They needed to be constantly distracted to prevent them from casting their Feiknstafir on you.

"Very well, O Barrel-rider!" Smaug said aloud. "Maybe Barrel was your pony's name; and maybe not, though it was fat enough. You may walk unseen, but you did not walk all the way. Let me tell you I ate six ponies last night and I shall catch and eat all the others before long. In return for the excellent meal I will give you one piece of advice for your good: don't have more to do with dwarrow than you can help!"

"Dwarrow!" said Bilbo in surprise, turning to face Smaug who stood at least 50 yards above Bilbo curled in on himself the way he was. Bilbo felt the arch looming behind him a mere 10 yards from where they stood.

"Don't lie to me!” said Smaug, draugr grinning lance length teeth. "I know the smell and taste of dwarf. You'll come to a bad end, if you go with such friends, Thief Barrel-rider. I don't mind if you go back and tell them so from me."

The draugr flickered a forked tongue out between his grinning teeth, tasting the air. “I have longed for flesh of dwarrow, the crunch of their bones. Do you not see the nest I made of their treasure and their bones?” Smaug gestured over his shoulder and Bilbo ducked down to see beneath the beast’s elbow. He gulped when he saw the mound of shields and femurs perched on display above the gold and gems. Smaug turned back his eyes gleaming gold beneath a slick film of white. “I suppose you got a fair price for entering this lair?” Smaug went on. "Come now, did you? Not yet? Well, that's just like them. And I suppose they are skulking outside, and your job is to do all the dangerous work and get what you can when I'm not looking - for them! And you will get a fair share? Don't you believe it! If you get off alive, you will be lucky."

Bilbo edged back a few feet green at the amount of death the wight had brought to this mountain. This was not a hoard, not a treasury. He stood within the wight’s barrow, the center of such a creature’s power. Smaug started to loose consistency in his form. His eyes sagged and melted to the side of his face. The gold on his belly dropped with his scales beneath him and his wings became shadows that sucked the ambient light from the room.

Bilbo’s back touched the stone arch as Smaug shape twisted and turned like a boiling kettle. "You don't know everything, O Smaug the Mighty," Bilbo said. “Gold alone did not bring me here.” The chalk slid out of his pocket as Bilbo ducked to the other side of the column. He started the forms, etching into one side of the column. 

Smaug laughed, a wet sounding gurgle, " I am pleased to hear that you had other business in these parts besides my gold. In that case you may, perhaps, not altogether waste your time. Why else are you here little one? For that shimmering stone pressed against your breast perhaps?” Bilbo gritted his teeth as the thing, for it wasn’t a stone per say, burned against his chest. 

“I should let you have it. Bring it to your dwarrow. I need more company and the loveliest of all jewels shall provide if brought to them.” Smaug’s tongue darted between the column tasting Bilbo’s sweat, the chalk underneath his nails, and the flesh starting to peel beneath his shirt.

Bilbo rucked his cuffs up and darted to the other column finishing the gealdor. 

"I tell you' " he said, in defense of his friends and to distract Smaug from the Arkenstone, "that gold was only an afterthought with us. We came over hill and under hill, by wave and wind, for Revenge. Surely, O Smaug the inaccessibly wealthy, you must realize that your success has made you some bitter enemies?"

Smaug laughed again the sound distorted by his shriveling flesh, his teeth floating on saliva to the floor, “Then I was but young and inexperienced by the world. Now I am old, strong on the deaths of so many. My armor is like tenfold shields, my teeth are swords, my claws spears, my wings a hurricane, and my breath death!"

"I have always understood," said Bilbo stepping back from the second column and standing ten feet back from the entrance, "that draugr were weak requiring death to survive. Tell me ole’ wight, how many years has it been since you gored yourself in flesh and blood?”

The dragon paused in his boasting and turned to stare quietly at the hobbit. His form had shrunken in size considerably, only holding a third of his prior size. What was once a dragon was now an amorphous blob with a wide mouth of half rotten teeth. Bilbo gagged on the sickly sweet smell of decaying flesh.

“Who are you,” garbled the once living thing. Bilbo shook his head and ground the remaining chalk between his hands. The draugr started a low whine that shook the gold coins beneath Bilbo’s feet. “ANSWER ME.”

Bilbo looked up at the thing and tossed the chalk forward breezing through the gate in dusty clouds. The cloud expanded around the draugr obscuring the gold, the bones, and the death. The cloud hovered around the draugr as Bilbo stepped back again and started to sing the galdr his grandfather taught him. Smaug started to shriek a sound that droned into Bilbo’s brain and shook his arms. Bilbo blinked tears of pain from his eyes and continued without interruption. Smaug undulated and pressed forward towards Bilbo through the door. 

The cloud of dust fell abruptly to the ground as the draugr passed through the gateway. There it stood reduced in front of Bilbo, its shrieking paused forever. It folded in against itself until, in the instance before it was nothing but a speck amongst the gold, Bilbo said, “I am your death. I am sending you home where you all belong.” The speck lifted from the ground and floated away down the corridor. A thousand thanks from a multitude a voices echoed in the treasury. Bilbo, his knees numb and his head pounding fell to the ground and rolled to his back.

"Never laugh at a draugr, you fool! Especially not one composed of thousands upon thousands of dwarrow," he said to himself.

A shout and then several more sounded down the tunnel shaft. He groaned and rolled to his knees, “You aren't nearly through this adventure yet.” The stone cooled against his breast, but the knife sharp pain of burnt flesh remained. “I still have to get rid of these wretched things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author Notes: For those of you who love Tolkien, you’ll notice I used some and adapted some of Bilbo’s conversation with Smaug from the book. I obviously do not own the rights to his works, so mea culpa Mr. Tolkien for taking it out for a spin.
> 
> Feiknstafir: (noun – Old Norse) a curse.
> 
> Galdor (galdr, gealdor): (noun – old English) chant or song that is a spell. Almost always in poem form, they are used for specific things such as protection from arrows, childbirth, and raising the dead. Mainly from Norse mythology (Odin used them), but also present in Germanic and Old English mythology.
> 
> Jarnsmidr: (noun – old Norse) Iron-smith 
> 
> Wight – similar to a draugr


	3. Chapter 3

“A mountain keeps an echo deep inside. That's how I hold your voice.” - Rumi

When Bilbo was a tween, his mother laughed and encouraged his rambles. She made pies out of stolen berries and winked when Bungo devoured the stolen bounty unaware of their providence and took him stargazing on clear nights making sure to point out the fairies and the protective gāst. (She also made sure in gestures to point out the malevolent spirits but did not mention them in breath. She used protective runes to tell of them). 

Bungo was a different matter. One day after a ramble through Farmer Maggot’s spread, Bamfurlong, Bilbo stumbled upon his father smoking in front of the hearth. Bungo an ever patient soul, sighed upon the sight of his unruly son his pockets full of stolen mushrooms. 

“Bilbo, come here.” Bilbo shuffled to his father and was brought closer by his father’s gentle grip on his elbow. Bungo’s eyes were a kind hazel. Even when he was disappointed or sad, they held a smile for his wife and son. “Your mother is still at the market,” Bungo brought a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped Bilbo’s face. “We are going to Farmer Maggots’ spread.”

Farmer Maggot was an imposing hobbit with broad shoulders, calloused rough hands, and corded muscles that stretched from shoulder to wrist. He was not a gentle hobbit like his father or willowy like his mother in her dances beneath the party tree. Farmer Maggot was a grower, his farm a bulwark against the western border of Old Forest and Tyrn Gorthad. Bamfurlong was not the end of the Shire boundaries, but one of edges to the civilized part of the Shire. The farm was in the boggy but rich ground of the Marish in the East Farthing just east of the Buckland and the Brandywine River. Farther east was the Old Forest and Bree, the arguable end of the Shire. Farmer Maggot’s western section of his farm was the only truly arable land he owned, the eastern section was a boggy forest utilized only for mushrooms and truffles. 

It was on this border of farm land and bog that Bungo brought Bilbo. There they found Farmer Maggot burning a tumulus, one of several tumuli that stretched across his land, with sage, corn husks, and pine. The mound smoked heavily perfuming the air with the smell of pitch and dried sage. Farmer Maggot stood several feet away from the mound with his eyes closed and his lips whispering an inaudible prayer. Bungo stood and waited with Bilbo for Farmer Maggot to finish the burning. 

“What can I do for you this evening Mr. Baggins?” His voice was rough with the smoke.

“My son is of age to learn from his grandfather the ways of the Tooks.” Bungo starts and Farmer Maggot hums in response. “Bella and I want to him to learn the ways of the Shire as well.”

“You want me to apprentice your son?” Farmer Maggot scoffs a bit and Bilbo realizing that something important, something adult was happening, perks up and begins to listen.

“Mr. Maggot you know the old ways the best in the East Farthing. Your farm stands at the edge of the Old Forest,” Bungo shrugged sheepishly, “you’ve likely seen things that…”

“I’m not Mister, it’s just Milo.”

“Milo, you’ve seen…”

Milo interrupted Bungo again, “What say you lad? Interested in chasing off barrow wights and ghouls?” He leaned close to Bilbo his breath on, “If you aren’t careful, if you refuse to listen to instruction, they will eat the nose of your face. They’ll dine on your innards like fauntlings with custard.” 

Bilbo gasped, but didn’t move away. Milo chucked, “Well?”

Bilbo looked to Bungo, his voice excited, “Can I da?” Bungo sighed before reaching a hand out to the other man. Milo smiled at Bilbo as he grasped Bungo’s hand and shook on it. “You can call me sir, lad.”

Bilbo and Bungo caught a ride on a market cart heading back from Bree, snacking on the slightly bruised apples that were left unpurchased. Bungo and Mr. Cotton chatted on about some wedding or another while Bilbo stared up at the stars beginning to glint in the dusk sky. He contemplated what his mother would say, being apprenticed so far from home. Bilbo had expected his mother to throw at least a little bit of fuss, but upon hearing the news her only response was to shrug and turn back to shaping scones. “Well I suppose he should learn the Hobbit way as well. Put out the plates Bilbo and set the table, dinner is almost ready.”

Bilbo did as he was told, but pondered his mother’s comment on the Hobbit way. He had been learning from his mother for as long as he could remember and spent the last summer with his mother’s father learning the chants and the runes. What was he learning if it was not the Hobbit way? While curious, he shrugged it off at that moment distracted by the cookies his mother was pulling from the oven. He’ll ask later, during lessons.

**************

The next few years Bilbo spent as an apprentice to Farmer Maggot. In the summer, he went at least six times a week, walking the hour to the farm and doing what was bid of him. Bilbo learned what plants were the best for blessing a home, for wishing a pregnant Hobbit a healthy babe, and how to build a tumulus. He learned to build different types of tumuli based on the need of the land and the demands of the wight barrows. He often rode back on a cart with Mr. Cotton, saving the hour walk home. 

In the winter, if the weather was good, Bilbo went once a week to Farmer Maggot’s farm and learned how to leave blessings in the hard ground or up in the trees for the birds to find. They buried scraps of vegetables and ashes from the fireplace in the ground, strung the trees with popcorn or dried fruit to encourage the birds to eat and leave droppings behind. The rest of the time, during winter, he read books his mother or his master asked of him, wrote sums, and practiced his words, both Sindarin and common. He helped his mother make salves and carved ruins in doorways to keep the draugr out. 

Occasionally Farmer Maggot was called out to a wake in Bree. Bilbo went with him and watched him burn sage throughout the deceased home. Bilbo helped plant marigolds and mint near the doorway, and when Farmer Maggot wasn’t looking, he chalked the doorways and shutters with runes. Breelanders, so close to the Barrow Downs, knew how to care for their dead when preparing them to be buried. They tied the feet together, blindfolded them, and laid lavender upon their brows. It was only after, when strange occurrences happened did they call in a Hobbit. Farmer Maggot’s approach was usually the first one taken, but when an escalation happened, Breelanders called for a Took. A Took would bring up an eerie chant, a galdr, and write runes in chalk or charcoal. If the spirit was particularly aggressive, a Took could banish them drawling an effigy through a blessed doorway if the spirit was not corporal. 

Took’s were unusual in the Shire for their methods, but every Shireling knew the importance of the work. So every year for one day at the height of summer, Hobbits celebrated and make defenses. That day and night even the men who watched the Shire borders felt the desire to turn and leave that place, the press of thousands upon thousands of Shirelings reinforcing their borders, relying their protections. Took’s every midsummer were drawn to the Party Tree to dance, to sing, and to chant. The Brandybucks burned large tumuli along the Brandywine River and Baggins held great feasts with tables strewn with marigolds. Even Proudfoots joined, dancing in An-Dro, a mesmerizing circle dance, for hours upon hours. 

*****************

Bilbo supposed he should have come up with some sort of cover story or explanation for what happened to the dragon, but distracted as he had been with the wight and the aftermath of Smaug, he just didn’t have the time. He didn’t think he could have banished Smaug in any other way, never mind a subtler one. All of the dwarrow except for Thorin had paused at the cusp of the treasury, but only Balin had paused on encountering the archway Smaug had been banished in. The cirth chalk runes were starkly apparent on the greyish black stone of the archway. 

Dwalin fluttered around Bilbo, grasping an elbow and pulling a curl. Bilbo basked in the attention. His bones ached sharp fiery pains down the lengths of his limbs. The burnt skin of his chest throbbed icy hot, the stone-that-was-not-a-stone hidden pressed against his breast. He leaned into the gentle touches and ignored with some effort the growing sound of Balin’s “humph….” 

The other dwarrow milled around the treasury staring agape at the great expanse. Bombur dived backwards into the mess of gold and gems, swaying his arms to and fro as if creating a snow angel with treasure. Ori, a distance from the group, was furiously penciling something in his small leather bound book. Bilbo supposed he was sketching the architecture of the treasury, but maybe he was sketching their King. Thorin was shouting something barely articulate alone many yards away and had somehow managed to acquire a thick fur robe. 

Bilbo’s temples throbbed, the top of his head sent sharp pains down his neck as if a small dwarrow was attempting to ice pick his skull. The ring set heavy in his pocket, the stone-that-wasn’t pressed against him, and the murky film of the wight hung heavy in the mountain. Half of the company was missing, presumably still down in Laketown with that wretched Master. Bilbo itched for a cleansing flame to clear out the mountain, but at the very least he wanted something warm for his stomach. 

“You! Everyone!” Thorin stomped over to Balin, his eyes wide and wild. His shouts brought the attention of the fragmented company. “Find the Arkenstone! Bring it to me!”

“Thorin, we don’t know what happened yet to Smaug. What if he is still here, somewhere in the mountain?” Balin gestured around the vast room. “Where has he gone if he’s not here? Hunting?”

“There is no dragon. He’s left this place,” Thorin snarled, “but our enemies will come soon looking for us. For the Arkenstone. To take my mountain once again.”

“You don’t think Thranduil will come here, Thorin? He has no reason to,” Balin reasoned. Thorin turned on him quickly swishing the robes behind him, “He’ll come because he wants this mountain; he wants to see us suffer!”

Balin, sensing that the conversation would quickly deteriorate to the degradations the dwarrow had suffered due to Thranduil’s actions, attempted to turn the conversation. “Thorin, we need to secure the mountain against the dragon, if he should return. The company needs rest, we need to find your sister-sons, and we need to send a messages to Dis and Dain.”

Bilbo grimaced while watching the fight between Balin and Thorin. The dwarrow fidgeted anxiously at the thought of Smaug returning and Dwalin at his side was a tense presence. Should Bilbo mention to his dwarrow that Smaug, the wight, was gone for now? How did he explain what had happened, what he remembered? Bilbo’s memories now stretched back more than an age, more than written word. Where he only remembered flickers or startled his mother with a strange phrase, he now remembered before cirth existed, before the the first contact with his mother’s people. He remembered his first awakening, cold and naked on a stone forge and all those awakenings that followed. 

Bilbo knew both Thorin and Balin were right. Thorin was correct, for now there was no dragon in the mountain, but that didn’t mean that danger didn’t remain within the mountain. Thousand’s had died here that received no lament, no burial. A wight could return or the elven king could come seeking what was his, what Thorin’s people had kept from him. But the absence of half the company worried those within the mountain; families had been torn in two. 

The King ground his teeth and shouted at Balin, “I am KING. The Arkenstone is my birthright, the jewel of my line.”

Balin half bowed to Thorin, the other members followed suit except for Bilbo who decided to speak up, to try to reason with Thorin, “Thorin…Balin worries, we all worry, for our family in Laketown. He wants only their safety, here in the mountain.” 

“You are afraid!” Thorin growled at Bilbo, “You are afraid, here so far from your hole in the ground. What trials you have seen on this journey is nothing to what my people have seen, have suffered. Hold your tongue before you speak to me of what I should do for my people.”

Bilbo scowled back and spat, “I am not afraid to be here with you, Thorin. But I do fear this mountain, a sickness lays upon this ground, a sickness that almost destroyed your people and drove your grandfather mad! This ground is cursed, the dead lay around us. We need to bury them and give them rights. This mountain needs to be cleansed of Smaug’s presence, of the dead, and of that wretched gem.”

“This mountain is our home and that stone, as you would call it, is Mahal’s grace upon my rule. You wouldn’t understand halfing. I say the stone needs to be found. The dwarrow we left in Laketown can make their own way here if they are strong enough. Do you think I shall take the commands you lay upon me? I am Thorin Oakenshield, KING UNDER THE MOUNTAIN, what I say is law! You overstep your authority, halfing. You are not my husband or my mate, even if you were that to me, I am King and I shall not be ruled from my bedchamber.”

“You are less of a king now than ever I saw before,” Bilbo shook his head, “You speak of a stone as if a cold glittery thing matters more than the dwarrow you are called to serve. You are king only in name if that is what you truly think.”

Dwalin stepped between the two of them and waved off Thorin’s hurried retort, “Enough. You both have done enough.” Bilbo swallowed and turned away from both of them, hurt simmering beneath a placid face. Dwalin continued eyeing Thorin to make sure he didn’t overstep while his king was so angry, “Thorin, send some of us to the front gate to make sure its secure and to see if we can spot your heirs returning. The rest of us will look for the Arkenstone. Bilbo…” Dwalin trailed off, noticing the tense tired shoulders of his smaller lover. He sighed, “Bilbo, you are tired. Rest and a meal will make everything better.”

Thorin gestured to Bombur, Bifur, and Ori, “Go check the gates and look for the return of the rest of the company. The rest of you, start the search for the Arkenstone.” Thorin wandered off, the argument between him and Bilbo seemingly no longer seeming to effect him. Thorin reached down to grab a broach laden with sapphires and a string of pearls, pinning one to his rich robes and placing the string over his head to hang loose on his neck.

The rest of the company stood in a loose circle looking at each other and at Bilbo with concern. “Well laddies,” Balin started grasping his beard in a worried gestured, “we best get on with it.” 

While the company moved to start their designated tasks, Bilbo took the chance to slip off to a deserted corridor. He rubbed his eyes angrily. Thorin was lost to them, the beginnings of gold madness to apparent to one who had seen it more than he wished in his long life. He no longer cared for his closest kin more than the treasure and ignored the advice of Balin his cousin and longest advisor. Bilbo suspected that Balin noticed the start of Thorin’s descent, but wasn’t sure that the others thought the change in behavior was anything but the relief of a hard life of stress. Thorin, of course, deserved a place without hardship more than most dwarrow, but before Laketown Bilbo hadn’t thought he would come to value treasure over kin.

There was only one thing to do in this moment. He couldn’t destroy the ring, not yet, Erebor was too young. Bilbo would have to go elsewhere for that. Bilbo ignored the mental shrieking the ring raised at him at the mere thought of being destroyed. The ring’s effects were something that Bilbo could manage, for a time at least, but the solution for the ring was one he still had to ponder. Dwarrow didn’t become Nazgûl in the presence of the rings wrought by Celebrimbor and mutilated by Sauron. They had been too stubborn for that. But those rings, and likely this one as well, could and did pervert the dwarrow’s natural inclination towards craft. 

He also couldn’t do much about the darker presence in the mountain. He had none of the herbs he needed, nor the makings of a fire if he could find such herbs. Bilbo doubted that anything of any use had been brought from Khazad-dûm; everything likely had been used or was still being used to keep the Balrog contained. 

But Bilbo could deal with the Arkenstone. Maybe without one of those things, the gold sickness would lessen upon Thorin. He wouldn’t be cured, but maybe it would keep Thorin from falling further. As frightened as he was for Thorin, Bilbo knew that the sickness would get much worse. 

Decision made, Bilbo stepped away from the wall he leaned so heavily against and made his quiet way from his dwarrow. 

***********

While Bilbo had never been in Erebor before, the mountain too new created only after the fall of Khazad-dûm, all mountains built by Durin-folk had similarities. The main entrance gate of the mountain led to living quarters for the ruling ranks, the guild masters, the royal guards, and the military officers along with their selected regiments were located above along with the great halls, the libraries, the rooms for visiting diplomats or royalty, and the weapon rooms. The children crèches, the healing rooms, the mines, the rest of the living quarters, taverns, and the great furnaces were below. 

The secret door led directly into the treasury high above the great furnaces and within several levels of the living quarters of the royalty and nobles. Bilbo was looking for one living quarter in particular, a noble that likely survived Khazad-dûm. He was a hoarder at heart. If anything useful was brought from Khazad-dûm he would have kept it safe in his personal rooms. Bilbo just hoped that crafty bastard made it out of the mountain. Bilbo missed his hammer and the necklace made out of mithril his first lover made for him. On that unbreakable chain, the ring would be safe until he could decide how to dispose of it. Then and only, then could Bilbo enact his plan to remove the Arkenstone’s influence over Thorin and before it could exact its rage on his company. 

They should have left it be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Language Notes: 
> 
> Bamfurlong: the name of the farm spread Farmer Maggot owned. In this fic I assume that Farmer Maggot is named passed on through the generations, sort of how we use “Jr” and “III.”
> 
> Gāst – (noun – Old English) breath, soul, spirit. Used in this fic to mean helpful spirits, lesser beings than the Vala.
> 
> Tumulus: (noun) Latin for small hill or mound. In normal use refers to a burial mound, but in this case its used as effigy of a mound, burned to keep evil sprits away.
> 
> [ Fabulous Shire Map](http://www.shirepost.com/ShireMapLarge.html)


End file.
